Fine Print
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Someone else is making the deal this time, but the Winchesters are still the ones paying for it.


_Previously appeared in _Route 666 #6, _from Ashton Press._

_For Jeanne, the Roy to my Johnny._

**Angel Fallen**  
K Hanna Korossy

His fingers were clumsy, hesitating with every item he held. The picture of him he'd torn from the family album. Three bones from the black cat the neighbor's kid had buried a few months back. Dirt from a graveyard he'd stopped at on the way out here. He put them in the Chinese takeout box he'd rinsed clean, and stared at them a moment before shaking his head and closing the box. It was crazy; the whole thing was crazy. But his sister had believed in all this stuff, and it had gotten her killed. If she'd been right, if this worked, it was fitting it would get her justice.

He nestled the box in the hole he'd made in the ground and shoved the dirt back over it with both hands. Then he rose, dusting his hands off on his jeans, and looked down the road. All four of them, stretching out in every direction from the empty crossroad where he stood.

It was silent. Even the gentle prairie wind had stopped blowing. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled to attention.

"Hello, Rick."

He whirled around, jaw dropping at the sight of the woman standing behind him. There was no way she should've been able to get there so fast and without his seeing her. Let alone in those high heels and that little black dress.

She smiled at him. And then her eyes flashed a brilliant, terrifying red. "Ready to make a deal?"

00000

"Okay, that does it," Dean Winchester declared, racking his shotgun. "I'm not playing anymore."

Sam huffed a laugh weakly behind him. "What happened to 'old-school hunt—sweet'?"

"That was before Gamera shoved a stinger up your…" He glanced back at Sam, slanted a smile at the bitchy look his brother gave him. "…side."

"It's a chimera, Dean," Sam corrected, groaning softly as he eased down onto a rock, arm hugged against his ribs. "Not a movie monster."

There was a rustle of underbrush a few feet from Sam's right flank. Dean stepped around to cover it, shotgun in one hand, homemade firebomb in the other. "No, I'm pretty sure I saw this dude in a movie."

Truth was, neither of them had seen anything like this before. Eve might have been resurrecting her Greatest Hits, but like the dragon, the chimera had turned out to be a spin on the classic monster. The Winchesters had gone into the hunt only knowing that a bunch of people had been killed by animals: clawed apart, stung to death, chewed on, and, in one memorable case, constricted.

They'd been thinking possessed animals, or perhaps some kind of dark spellwork that could control fauna. Neither of them could have predicted a normal-looking guy who could shapeshift animal body parts. The wicked scorpion stinger that had whipped out from behind him had taken them both by surprise. Sam had recovered first, knocking Dean to the ground in an attempt to get them both clear but nevertheless getting stung just above his left hip. Layers of clothing had kept the huge tail from taking out a chunk of Sam's flesh, but it hadn't completely stopped the wicked stinger from penetrating, or the scorpion poison it injected. Dean knew they had to gank this thing and get Sam some professional medical help fast before the poison took its toll.

Sure, piece of cake.

One of the bushes shook again, and Dean took careful aim as something started inching out. Was that a—?

And suddenly, he was somewhere else.

Dean took immediate inventory. The weapons were gone from his hand. There were still trees and bushes all around, but they looked different. And Sam was… Dean spun, meeting his brother's bewildered gaze as Sam stared up at him from the ground. Okay, Sam was still with him. Seemed like the only good part of…whatever had just happened.

"Can a Gamera—?"

"—teleport someone?" Sam finished. "Not in any of the lore. Not that Eve's sticking to the lore."

Dean pressed his lips together and reached a hand down to his brother. Sam braced his side with one arm and accepted Dean's help with the other, letting himself be carefully pulled to his feet. Dean looked him over, noting the pale and sweaty face and the bloody stain on his shirt that at least didn't seem to be growing anymore. Then he glanced around again. The sky had been gray in Montana where they'd been hunting; it was bright blue here. The temperature was a good forty degrees warmer, and in the distance there was…

"Is that…the ocean?" Sam spoke his thoughts.

"You got any weapons on you?" Dean asked urgently, more and more disturbed at the sudden change of venue. His pockets were empty as he searched them, his boot knife gone, paperclip and lockpicks all missing. He turned back to Sam to find his brother equally tight-lipped. "Anything?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head.

"Great. Awesome." Dean threw up his hands, circled again to take in lots of unfamiliar trees and plants. "What do we do now?"

"You run," a new voice spoke behind them.

Dean whirled, feeling Sam straighten behind him. They both stared at the middle-aged man emerging from the dense forest.

"So you're the Winchesters."

Dean's eyes narrowed. The guy was dressed in layers of flannel and denim, and held a gun like he knew how to use it. Dean's first thought was _hunter, _but no, it didn't quite fit. There was a weariness to the man's face, but not the permanent exhaustion and dead eyes of a hunter. No scars were visible, either, and the way the guy stood indicated little knowledge of close-combat skills. But there was something oddly familiar about him… Dean shifted his balance to the balls of his feet as he spoke up. "So you're the guy who's gonna tell us what's going on."

To his surprise, the man nodded. "That I am. Let me introduce myself: I'm Rick Dempsey."

Dean barely curbed his eye roll. "Any relation to Patrick?"

Not even a flicker of a smile; the guy apparently had no sense of humor. "No, but you knew my little sister. Ellen? She was going by her married name when she died, Ellen—"

"—Harvelle," Dean breathed in tandem with his brother.

The man's eyes darkened. "You remember her."

As if they could ever forget. It had been almost a year, but Dean's eyes still burned at the thought of Jo lying bloody and dying in her mother's arms, and Ellen's fierce, _Kick it in the ass. Don't miss. _Her final words. He swallowed. "'Course we remember. She and Jo, they were family."

Dempsey sneered. "You always get your family killed?"

It was like a dump of ice water down his spine. Dean's mouth opened and shut without sound.

"We didn't get them killed," Sam said firmly. "They died trying to help us save the world."

"Yet you two made it out without a scratch," Dempsey shot back.

This time Dean stepped in as the words doubtless stuck in Sam's throat. "Dude, you have _no idea _what he's been through."

"No," Dempsey said, and raised his gun partway. Dean tensed. "What I do know is that my sister and niece left to help you two on some _hunt, _and you two walked away after, while I had a hard time even finding out they were gone. I couldn't even bury them—you know how that feels?"

Dean lifted his chin. "Yes," he said, and heard Sam's soft echo.

"Yeah, I don't think so. But you will." He nodded at them. "You get a five-minute head start. It's an island, so you're not getting out of here. And I've been hunting all my life, fair warning. But, hey, maybe you'll beat me. I doubt it, but at least you've got a fighting chance. It's more than you gave my family."

Dean's heart started double-timing it. "Dude, I would have given anything—_anything—_to save Jo and Ellen. What happened to them's gonna be something I'll have to carry with me the rest of my life. But if you wanna get what killed them, you're barking up the wrong tree. Go gank some demons. Or, better yet, find a Hell-bitch named Meg and take it out of her hide."

"Your lead's dwindling," Dempsey said, seemingly unperturbed. But Dean had seen his eyes twitch.

"Okay, okay, listen, you want a fair fight? Bring it on. But he's injured," he half-turned to Sam. "Keep him out of it."

Dempsey chuffed with annoyance. "Boy, you talk too much. You need some help with that start?"

Dean had expected the man to raise his gun. He didn't expect the hot brunette in black to step out from the trees behind Dempsey.

He didn't need to see the color of her eyes, or hear Sam's quick inhale, for the rest of the pieces to fall into place.

He sneered back at Dempsey, any empathy he felt for the man having fled. "Seriously? This is your idea of a fair fight?" He nodded at her. "You realize you're working with the side that got your kin killed, right?"

Dempsey's face darkened.

"Dean," Sam whispered urgently, pulling at him. "C'mon."

"Dude, we're not…" What he was going to say slipped away as he turned and saw Sam's white face. Memories were knocking at Sam's door, and Dean wasn't sure the wall in his head that held them back could take the blows. Besides, Sam had a tendency toward pragmatism those days that often seemed to elude Dean. He took a breath, sharing a silent conversation with Sam before he nodded. It sucked, but it was what they had at the moment. He glanced over his shoulder at Dempsey and the crossroad demon, spitting out a "We're not done," before he took Sam's arm and helped his brother stumble into the forest.

The hunt was just beginning.

00000

Sam had thought he'd blown it back in Montana, after the chimera shafted him. But that was beginning to look like kid's stuff compared to the mess they were in now. _Frying pan to fire_ had rarely seemed so apt.

"Dean, a crossroad demon set this up," he hissed through dry lips as he stumbled after his brother.

Dean didn't bother to look back at him, but his grip on Sam's arm stayed firm. "Yeah, no kidding, Sam. Keep moving."

"No, I mean. We're not outrunning this." He gasped in some air, his side tight and burning with each breath. "Even if we found a way off the friggin' island…she'd just zap us back into the game."

"So we'll have to figure out a way to take him out," Dean said stonily, clearing the path through tropical bushes and around palm trees for the both of them. "Less talking, more walking, dude."

"Dean." Sam planted his feet, almost falling over as Dean kept pulling at him a moment before realizing he'd stopped. He ignored the scowl his brother threw him. "Again: crossroad demon. She's gonna rig the game no matter what we do." He pressed a hand against his injured side and hid the wince at finding it swollen and hot.

"Sam—"

"And he's Ellen's big brother. Jo's uncle. You really ready to take him down?"

Dean's jaw worked a moment, eyes blazing. "What're you saying, huh? You want us to just sit here and wait for him to come gank us? You think that's what Ellen would've wanted?"

"No, of course not," Sam said reasonably, feeling calm descend as it became clear what they needed to do. "But if I—"

A sudden lance of pain doubled him over. It felt like the chimera's stinger, only it was shoving in all the way to his spine. Even as he groaned, Sam dimly heard Dean barking questions at him.

He finally blinked clear tears of pain to find Dean's arms bracketing him chest and back, a deep frown of concern just inches from Sam's eyes. "…can't run," he whispered when he had the spit for it.

"Then we'll walk," Dean declared. "I'm not leaving you, so make up your mind, dude: we keep going, or we pack it in, both of us."

In the end, Sam hadn't really expected anything else. He nodded, resigned. "All right. Yeah."

They walked on, Dean hanging on to his arm, then also grabbing a loop of his jeans to help him along. Dean was urgent, but not faster than Sam could keep up. And eventually, even through the blur of the rainforest, he realized Dean was moving them to an older growth area, with denser and taller trees. Good place for an ambush.

"He's getting closer." Dean's voice was a low buzz in his ears. Or maybe his hearing was going.

Sam nodded wearily, not even attempting to look behind them.

"Okay. This is it. Gonna lean you against this tree, okay? You think you can hold it up?"

Sam managed a wan smile.

Dean mussed his hair, then stepped away.

Sam watched through fuzzy vision as his brother bent and did something to the ground. Then Dean stood and moved away and…up? Sam blinked a few times to see that Dean had shimmied up a tree and was now about ten feet in the air, half camouflaged by leaves. One of the first rules of escape and evasion: people never look up. He caught Sam's eye for a second, and Sam was pretty sure he winked.

The soft swish of greenery announced Rick was coming.

There was a shot of pain from the puncture wound, skittering around his ribs. Sam pressed a hand harder to it and swallowed a hiss, then gave a quick guilty look in the direction of their pursuer. That was when he realized why Dean had stationed him there: the combination of high bushes and a thick tree hid him effectively from the east, where Rick was coming from. He should've figured Dean would think of that. Sam shook his head, then leaned it sideways against the solid trunk and kept watching through the branches.

First a rustle of underbrush, and a quick, low scurry as some ground animal scuttled away in fear. And then the greenery carefully parted and Dempsey stepped out. And paused.

Sam held his breath, darting a quick glance up to where Dean was waiting. His brother seemed completely focused on the man below.

Sam counted to four before Rick started moving again.

Dean was on him a second later.

Between the advantages of surprise and height, it was over anti-climactically fast: two punches, and Rick was sprawled on the ground, motionless. Dean kicked away his rifle, then unbuckled and yanked his belt free. Seemingly between one of Sam's blinks and the next, Dempsey's elbows were tied together behind his back.

Dean paused only long enough to snatch up the rifle, then he was storming back to where Sam slumped against the tree, more worn out than if he'd been the one doing the ambushing. Sam smiled, eyes fluttering shut, and when they opened again, Dean was looming above him.

"Hey. Can you stand?"

Wasn't he…? Sam looked blearily to either side and realized that somewhere along the way he'd slid down against the tree onto his rear. "Um." He gave it a try, quickly abandoning the idea when his legs turned to rubber and his stomach gave a warning lurch. "No." Sam sighed, and pretended he didn't know why Dean paused a second to cup the back of his neck. "Rick?" he asked instead.

"He'll live, but he's not gonna be hunting again anytime soon." Dean would've looked insufferably smug if he hadn't already been busy looking concerned.

Sam closed his eyes and sagged back against the log. "Thank God."

Dean's mouth did that crooked thing where he was recognizing the irony in the _Hells _and _damns _and _God_s that had always carelessly littered their speech. "Close enough," he said, then he was digging a hand under Sam's armpit. "C'mon, let's find Ruby Eyes." At Sam's flinch, he winced. "Sorry."

"No, it's…" Sam looked past Dean's shoulder and sighed out, body deflating back against the tree. "Right there," he mumbled.

"What?" Dean craned around, trying to see without letting him go. Sam would have appreciated the effort if they hadn't been so very screwed regardless.

The demon stood behind them, arms crossed. She smiled coldly as Sam felt Dean stiffen.

"Well, that wasn't part of the deal at all."

That was when Sam's stomach decided it wouldn't be denied any longer. He curled forward and threw up on Dean's boots.

What was one more mess that day, right?

00000

Rick snapped awake at the touch and shook his head clear. He was surprised to find it wasn't killing him, wasn't hurting at all. And that the arms pulled painfully to his back were already falling to his sides, freed.

The woman—the demon, if he was being honest—was glaring at him. Embarrassed by returning memories, Rick glared defiantly back at her. Which was hard to do when he could feel the buzz of power radiating from her.

She held out his rifle with a snide, "Our deal was for a chance to hunt them, not to make sure you won. I didn't think I'd have to keep saving you from your own ineptness. "

The words made humiliation curl in his belly, but Rick didn't back down as he grabbed the gun. "You didn't tell me how good they were." Or, a small voice in him added, that they were capable of mercy.

She rolled her eyes. "You think the men who got away with killing your sister and her spawn are idiots? I notice you didn't go after them yourself on an even playing field."

Rick clenched his jaw, but it was true. It had taken him months to get their names, months more to dig up anything about them. There wasn't much out there besides rumor and suspicions, but it had been enough for him to think twice about tracking them down on his own. Ellie had been the toughest person he'd known, and these two had gotten her killed seemingly without any trouble.

There'd been something wrong with the taller one when he'd shown up, though; Rick had seen it. Looked like a fresh wound. And the other one—the older brother?—had been the one to ambush Rick, alone. And still he hadn't killed Rick, even though he could've ended this and helped his brother. That was hard to reconcile with the stone-cold killers he blamed for Ellen and Joanna Beth's deaths.

It wouldn't change his mind, however, not after he'd gotten this far. He firmed his shoulders and looked the Hell creature in the eye. "It won't happen again."

"Good," the demon purred, her voice prickling the skin on Rick's arms. "But just in case, I moved them away to give you a chance to…regroup." She gave him a patronizing smile. "You don't want this to be over before it started, right?

He frowned at her. "What—?"

But she was already gone.

Rick resisted the urge to look around for her. His logical mind insisted she was still nearby, but logic had nothing to do with this.

He checked his rifle out of habit, satisfied it was still fully loaded. Then he glanced around to get his bearings.

Okay, so there was no trail for him to follow from here, and these Winchesters weren't idiots, anyway. They weren't bucks or coyotes, weren't going to take off in blind panic and let themselves be tracked down. He would have to hunt them differently, smarter.

But they were still living creatures, which meant they had needs no amount of experience or smarts would overcome. First and foremost, they needed water, especially the injured one. And while the island was surrounded by ocean, there was only one source of fresh water. The Winchesters would eventually find it, but Rick knew exactly where to go and would get there first.

He'd be waiting, and this time he'd be the only one walking away.

00000

It wasn't any more fun or less disconcerting the second time the Hell bitch beamed them out. Dean swayed as his feet sank into the unexpectedly sandy terrain, and then he was quickly spinning around to catch Sam when his brother groaned and lurched against him.

Yeah, definitely not fun.

Sam breathed hot against his neck, but his skin had gone from feverish to clammy. The beginnings of shock, Dean recognized, and why not? No reason things should start going their way now.

"You with me?" he asked Sam in a low voice even as he scanned the area. The demon had sent them to the edge of the island, waves softly crashing against the shore on two sides of them. It would've been beautiful in other conditions.

He could feel Sam gulp, then nod. Dean sank them both down to the warm sand, one arm keeping Sam upright and close. Rick's rifle was gone, of course, as well as any sense of which direction their stalker was or how far away. Dean could tell by the position of the sun that they were west of where they'd been before, but that wasn't much help.

Then again…

Dean's eyes narrowed as he spotted a glimmer of water through the trees, a good twenty feet from the shore. It didn't look like the edge of the island curved that way, which maybe meant a river or stream. Potable water. Just what Sam needed, Dean thought, even as his brother swallowed hard again.

"Sam?"

"Mmm."

"How 'bout something to drink?"

Sam's head rolled against his shoulder until he could slant Dean a look. His pupils were too wide, his face a little swollen around his eyes. "We're not tryin' that…pee converter Dad taught you," he huffed.

His voice was too thin, but Dean was heartened by the verbal poke. "Aw, c'mon, that thing totally worked."

"So why didn'…you drink any?" Sam's breath suddenly seized, his jaws clamping down on what Dean was pretty sure was a sound he didn't want to hear.

He rubbed up and down Sam's arm, chafed his back. "It's a rule, dude: little brothers are always the guinea pigs."

Even Sam's laugh sounded pained.

"Okay, I'm pretty sure that's not ocean water over there, so you can sit here making fun of me or go have a drink. What's it gonna be?"

Sam, stubborn bitch that he was, promptly latched onto Dean's shoulder and struggled to push himself up.

"Take it slow, take it slow. Geez." Dean pulled him up in stages, waiting as those shaky colt legs found their knees, then feet, then balance. Well, more or less; Sam was still leaning heavily on him. But upright was always better than down and almost out. "Easy—keep your eyes closed a minute, okay?" Sam was obviously dizzy, and getting more so as he tried to focus. "I'm not gonna walk you into a tree."

"Promise?" Sam mumbled.

"No," Dean said with a smile, and edged them forward.

He hadn't recognized how nervous it made him to be out in the open until they reached the tree line and the bush closed around them. Dean breathed out in relief, then again as he was proven right: a stream about three feet wide was close enough that even his shaky brother could make it. Dean steered them that way, careful around the thick trees and the bushes that seemed intent on snagging Sam's jacket, until he finally reached the sandy bank.

"Okay, gonna sit you down for a minute. Hang on."

Sam made a sound that was either protest or discomfort, but neither was stopping Dean. He settled Sam on a relatively flat and dry expanse of dirt packed around the roots of some tropical tree, and reached up to straighten the lolling head.

"Sam? Dude? You hear me?"

Sam didn't bother opening his eyes or trying to speak, just wobbled a nod.

Dean sighed, palm cupped around Sam's jaw. With morbid curiosity, he used his free hand to lift his brother's untucked shirt and winced at the fiery red, engorged patch the size of one of the Impala's hubcaps that wrapped around Sam's side. The sting was in the middle like a bull's eye, a deep purple of injured skin. It hadn't bled much, even right after Sam had been stung, but that failed to reassure Dean then or now.

"Howzzit look?" Sam slurred, eyes still shut.

"Like the world's biggest bee sting," Dean answered honestly.

"Feels worse."

"It's getting worse," he said flatly as he felt the heat radiating off Sam's body, the galloping pulse under his palm. He pulled Sam a little higher, away from the tree, to lean his chin on Dean's shoulder. These were the only times when he felt like the literal big brother, when Sam was small with injury or illness. "The bite's pretty swollen."

"Mmm," Sam agreed. He sounded dazed. "Feels kinda…numb now."

"Well, that's good, right?" Dean asked, knowing it wasn't. "Better than it hurting like a bitch."

"Pain then…numbness and…chest pain, anxi'ty, con…" He trailed off. "C'nfucianism?"

"Right," Dean said dryly, his own chest tight. "Anxiety and Chinese philosophy. The usual symptoms." He hesitated, wanting to ask about the chest pains or breathing or anything else critical that he really should know about. But what would he do with the answers? They couldn't exactly get 9-1-1 on a tropical island in the middle of nowhere, nor was there a convenient hospital down the road. It was just them and whatever Dean could do to get them out of there, and he didn't need more incentive to do so ASAP. "All right, hold on a minute."

He made sure Sam wasn't sliding down, then leaned back enough to pull out his flask. He didn't warn Sam before pulling up his shirt again and dumping the whiskey onto the puncture wound.

Sam would have yelled out, but Dean's hand was already over his mouth.

"It's okay, it's okay, ride it out. Sorry, sorry—just trying to clean it out a little." He brushed a tear away with his pinky and smoothed Sam's shirt back down over the wound. "It feels better now, right?"

Sam choked one more time against his palm, then contorted his face trying to dislodge it. Dean obliged, and Sam gasped in two breaths before gasping out a single word. "No."

"Spoilsport," Dean groused. He propped Sam carefully against the tree, then duckwalked a step down to the stream. It looked clear, but parasites were the last thing he was worried about right now. Dean drank a handful of water, then filled the flask and slid back to Sam's side to hold the container to his lips. "Drink slow."

Sam spluttered briefly, then gulped twice before Dean took the flask back. He shoved Sam's hair out of his face, dried the sweat and tears off with the corner of his shirt, and studied him a minute before offering another drink. This time it was Sam who pulled away. "Gonna…" His hand to his belly clarified the threat.

Dean nodded; his boots were testament to Sam's touchy stomach. It was the venom, but the exertion and the demon-zapping hadn't helped. He shifted to refill the flask, capped it, then tucked it into Sam's pocket.

It wasn't the worse situation they'd ever been in—one of them dying, not to mention Sam jumping into the Cage, competed for that prize—but it wasn't exactly ten-dollar-lap-dance night at the Pink Pony, either. Except for the part where they were getting screwed.

The crossroad bitch hadn't beat around the bush: they weren't getting off that island. This was Rick's party, not a fair fight, no matter what Dempsey told himself to be able to sleep at night. And trying to run or fight back was just prolonging the inevitable.

Yeah, well. Dean had never been a big believer in the inevitable. Then again, he was healthy and whole, while Sammy wasn't doing so hot.

Sam looked up at him through the hair once more hanging in his face. His eyes were bloodshot, the pupils close to blown. "Gotta lea'me."

Dean felt the tremors from Sam's body travel up his own. "We tried that already, Einstein—didn't work, remember? Game's rigged. He's got a demon on a leash."

"Go trap…demon, not…R-Rick. Even th'odds."

Dean nodded; he'd thought of that, wasn't an idiot. "Even if I could draw a devil's trap somehow"—which wasn't likely on the debris-strewn ground—"they know that trick already, dude. Not gonna fall for it again."

Sam groaned, whether at Dean shooting down his plan or at whatever was happening to his body. Figured the geek would know the symptoms of scorpion venom, but this was mutant venom. Sam could turn purple, sprout hair all over his body, die in the next minute or be totally fine just as fast: there was no way of knowing. But the rapid and severe progression of symptoms wasn't promising.

Dean absently slid a hand up the back of Sam's neck into the sweaty hair while he looked around, furiously thinking. Okay, so Sam needed rest and protection and wouldn't be able to help with any plan they came up with. There was a demon making sure the game stayed unfair, and Rick couldn't be relied on to have an attack of conscience anytime soon, even if Dean had seen twinges of uncertainty in the guy.

"D'n?"

Dean's mouth twisted; even strung out and sick, Sam usually knew what he was thinking. What Dean hated himself for thinking. "He's not gonna give up. She won't let him give up."

Sam's head rolled against the tree. "His br'ther died."

"Sister," Dean corrected, frowning.

"What I said." Sam had to take obvious breaths between each phrase, marshalling strength; Dean really didn't like how fast he was fading. "He's notta monst'r."

Dean felt his anger curb a little against his will. He knew that; he really did. Not like he and Sam hadn't done some stupid things in their grief over losing each other. But when Sam's life was at stake, Dean wasn't inclined to compassion. "Maybe I can change his mind, get him to call off the deal," he hedged.

Sam's eyes opened wider at that, a moment of perfect focus. He knew what Dean meant—Alistair's school of _mind changing_—and how much it would cost him to do what he was suggesting. Just like Dean was sure Sam knew his big brother would only do it because Sam's life was at stake. But they'd gone down this road too many times for Sam to try to be all noble and talk Dean out of it. They didn't do well on their own; they could admit it now. Nor had they started this fight, but like so many others before, they would end it, one way or another.

Dean saw all those thoughts pass through Sam's face and more: empathy for Rick, the need to distinguish between true monsters and the misguided good, worry about his big brother. And then acceptance of whatever was necessary.

Sam breathed out and gave a wobbly nod. "'S bothering him…'lready."

So Sam had seen that, too. Dean never failed to be impressed by his little brother. "I know," he said quietly. "Maybe I won't have to go full Guantanamo on him to convince him."

Sam nodded again, just a small bounce of his head. He was getting weaker even as Dean watched.

Dean chewed his lip, looking around. "Sammy? Hey, listen to me. Remember that berserker hunt with the cops?" They'd killed the creature on a hunt, only to have police show up at the incriminating scene.

"Hide," Sam breathed.

He felt ridiculously relieved that Sam was on the same page. "Right, after you got shot we hid you and I went after the posse."

"Mmm."

"Yeah, okay." Another glance back, and Dean decided. A hand under each of Sam's armpits, and he dragged his limp brother a half-dozen feet back to where a felled tree lay alongside the stream. "Here. It's not exactly deep cover, but should keep you out of sight enough for him to focus on me."

Dean tilted him forward and down, arranging him until Sam was lying on his good side, the tree trunk at his back. Dean wasted no time starting to mound brush over him, just another leaf pile accumulated against the bulk of a tree. He worked fast, ending at Sam's face.

Dean gave him a heavy look. "I'm _not _leaving you, you got me? I'll be back for you."

"…be here," Sam whispered.

Dean lifted a handful of leaves to scatter over him.

And heard the crunch of footsteps approaching.

00000

Sam was floating.

He knew somewhere in his head that he wasn't really. But it still felt like it. His body was weightless, his mind drifting idly. It was hard to breathe and it was too cold and a fiery branch kept stabbing him in the side. But none of that seemed to matter when he was gliding along, buoyant, insubstantial…

A loud crack of sound yanked him back into gravity's pull.

Sam's body seized, his fingers clenched so tight, they felt like they'd snap. He gasped in a breath, then another, straining to hear past the debris he was under, the ambient sounds of the jungle, and the hammering of his heart. Sweat trickled down his back, gluing his shirt to his clammy skin. Crap, what would he do if Dean didn't come back? Sam would have to go help…but he wasn't even sure he could dig himself out of the pile of leaves right now. Besides, maybe Dean was fine; Sam would put money on his brother any day, even in a mismatched fight like this. Sam breaking cover could just make things harder for Dean. But how would he know if his brother was in trouble? How long of a wait until he could be sure Dean wasn't returning?

Sam clamped his jaws together, shivering from fear as much as chimera venom. His eyes burned as badly as his side, and his chest was hurting enough that it felt like he was having a freaking heart attack. He remembered this helplessness, this feeling of drowning, from after he'd buried Dean. The panic and pain of being alone.

His breath sawed in and out of him, and he bit his lip to stifle the sound. Hiding, right. He was poisoned and Dean was trying to get them…get them somewhere…

"_Stop!"_ The voice sounded close.

Sam lifted a heavy eyelid, an urgency gnawing at him that he couldn't place. There were…things in his vision, scratchy brown blobs, and he almost shifted to try to move them before he remembered.

Leaves. Hiding him. Dean going after the demon and Ellen's big brother—

Sam's other eye snapped open, blood in his mouth as his teeth sliced through his lip.

"Look, I'm not armed. You really gonna shoot me down in cold blood?"

Dean. Dean's voice. Not far. Sam tried to focus, frustrated, biting down even harder when an automatic movement sent a wash of fire up his side. There, a small gap, enough that he could see boots. Dean's boots.

His vision was iffy at best, but the boots seemed close. Dean hadn't gotten far at all, or he'd been running back to Sam…

"I'm guessing that's how my sister and niece died." The voices were loud enough to carry. Sam used them as a guide rope out of his murky confusion.

"You're right."

Sorrow in that voice. Dean was grieving. Without conscious decision, Sam shifted to get up to join him, and the slam of pain reminded him why he couldn't. He had to focus, kept drifting…

"It wasn't a fair fight," Dean was continuing. "Demons and hellhounds don't exactly do fair."

There was a pause. That disembodied voice again—Rick? Sam couldn't see…

"Hellhound? What—? Stay back!" A gun cocked.

Gun. On Dean. He should go, wanted so bad to go. But…do what? Sam was dizzy trying to _think_. He had no weapon, either, and even if he managed to crawl out from his hiding spot—which he sorta doubted—he was in no shape to fight. He'd just hamper his brother.

"I'm not moving, see?" Dean was answering. "Look, Rick, Ellen and Jo, they were tryin' to help us stop the _end_ of the _world_. Those earthquakes and hurricanes and fires—remember? That was the Apocalypse trying to make it to the big time. The whole town in Missouri that disappeared? We were there. We took a stand there, and we lost."

Sam's eyes sank shut under the weight of the memory, Jo dying bloody, Ellen brave and heartbroken.

"And you ran out and left them there to die."

"Yeah. I guess we kinda did." And with the sorrow now there was…surrender.

Sam blinked with effort to find Dean's boots, his stupid, guilt-ridden brother. For a second, he caught a glimpse of Dean's eyes as his brother glanced back, their gazes briefly locking. It wasn't Dean's angry look when he was storming the gates of denial and daring Sam to argue with him, or his calculating look when he was trying to figure out Plan M because all the others before it had been sunk. This was the wild look of fear of someone who'd taken one too many hits and didn't remember how to defend himself. Someone who'd done this farewell bit before and knew just how awful it was.

Sam's heart was ready to tug him up out of hiding and to his brother's side if his body wouldn't.

Dean's voice dropped. "Jo got hurt trying to save me. Hurt…bad. She, uh…she wasn't gonna make it." A pause.

Sam's eyes burned, but he kept watching. It was the least he could do for Dean.

"I didn't want to leave her, but Ellen, she… She told us to go. 'Kick it in the ass,' she said. She wasn't gonna leave Jo. They, uh… They went out together. Took the whole pack of hell bitches with 'em."

Rick must've answered; it was too soft for Sam to hear over the sudden cramp that ripped through him. He dug his nails into his palms to keep from moving or making a sound.

"Yeah, me and Sam got out of there. We went and faced off with Lucifer—yeah, _the _Lucifer—and we didn't bring him down. That time. But Sam, he deep-sixed Lucifer's ass a few months later, sacrificed himself to drag the devil down into the Pit and lock him up. I only got him back not long ago."

Sam clamped his jaw tight to keep his teeth from chattering. His eyes sank shut again.

"So, yeah, I guess we did get Ellen and Jo killed. But they went down fighting for something they believed in, something worth fighting for. And what they did saved the whole friggin' world. But you know what? Even knowing all that, I'd still give anything to go back and trade places with them."

His chest had constricted again, but now it felt like something was crushing his heart. Sam tried to drag in air as anxiety and pain closed over him.

It took him a second to realize he was flying through leaves and debris up into the air, yanked to his feet by the grip around his straining throat.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, could barely hear her cold voice over the gallop of his heartbeat.

"_Forgetting something, aren't we?"_

00000

The whole situation had become screwed six ways to Sunday.

Rick didn't realize his rifle had dropped until the brunette—the _demon_—appeared behind Dean, hauling his brother up from some hidey-hole in the ground. And the guy didn't look good, pale and sweaty and shivering, eyes unfocused and wild. Something was going on there that Rick didn't know.

His gaze swung back to Dean Winchester. Make that a lot of somethings.

"We have a deal, Rick." The red-eyed woman dropped Sam like he was a doll and stepped around his brother, toward Rick.

Sam crumpled to the ground with a grunt. Dean quickly stepped in front of him, shielding him bodily from Rick even though the idiot wasn't armed and Rick was. The demon ignored them both, strutting toward Rick like she was seducing him. But her eyes were scary even when they weren't red.

"You get the Winchesters. And in a year," her finger slid up the front of his shirt, icy even through the layers, "I get you."

Rick looked again at the brothers. It'd been so clear, a day ago, his chance to finally get his revenge on those who'd killed his family. But that was before they had faces, had a story he wouldn't have believed except for how much it sounded like Ellie, and how raw Winchester had looked telling it. And now Rick didn't know what to believe.

"What are you waiting for?" the demon demanded. "This is what you wanted, what you asked for."  
"What did you ask for?" Dean suddenly spoke up behind her.

Rick's eyes snapped to him. "What?"

"What did you deal for?" Dean repeated impatiently. _"Exactly."_

"Uh." It was hard to think. "Uh, I told her I wanted to hunt you two down." He actually felt a little ashamed saying it. "Hunt you like you hunters did Ellie and Joanna Beth."

Sam muttered something from the ground Rick couldn't hear. He just saw Dean's chin dip and his foot slide back to bump up against his brother's shoulder.

"Kill us?" Dean asked sharply. "Was that part of the deal?"

Rick squared his jaw. "Yes."

"So, deal's not done until we're dead."

"Enough," the demon interrupted. She waved her hand, and Dean was suddenly sprawled on the ground beside his brother, gasping for breath. "They're just trying to confuse you. Kill them, Rick. This is what you've been waiting for, to put down the animals who murdered your sister and your sweet little niece, so _do it." _

A rustle of motion from the ground drew his attention, but it wasn't Dean, who was still choking in silence. It was the younger one, Sam, looking like he barely had the strength to do it as he pushed himself up to hunch over the downed man, guarding his brother as Dean had been doing a moment before.

"She's wrong, Rick. 'F you're looking for who killed Ellen and Jo…it was her kind." Sam nodded weakly at the demon. His feeble swing of the head did little to toss back the hair that was dripping sweat into his face. "Hellhound clawed up Jo…after a demon sicced it on Dean. She was trying to save 'im." He coughed, face contorting with obvious pain. "He loved her…we both did…Ellen was like a…" Sam shuddered, his chin dropping, hand pressed hard against his side like it was hurting him bad. "…lik'a mom t'us." Dean groaned behind him, and without looking away from Rick, Sam let go of his side to drop the hand on his writhing brother's chest. "Almos' killed Dean t'lose 'em. They wouldn' want this…either, Rick. Please…"

There was nothing but truth in the boy's eyes. Rick felt something crumble inside him, and turned to scowl at the demon.

She arched an eyebrow at him. "A deal's a deal, Rick. We traded spit over it, remember?"

"Not yours until you…deliver," Sam panted behind her.

She wheeled on him. "I _did_ deliver. If he chooses not to kill you, that's his business."

Sam stared at her with steel in his eyes that Rick wouldn't have thought he still had in him. "Crowley know 'bout…your def'nition of…deal?"

The name meant nothing to Rick, but the demon paled. She took a threatening step toward Sam.

"Crowley, huh?" Rick found his voice, and a decision he hadn't even realized he'd made. "Well, I guess I got a year to figure out who that is and find him."

The demon looked back at him, eyes burning brightly. They looked like literal hellfire, and Rick felt the first real horror of comprehension at what fate he'd bought himself.

Her face still contorted in fury, the demon reached up and snapped her fingers. Rick felt a chill pass through him, but he didn't know if it was from something changing or from the obvious hatred in her inhuman eyes. "You're free." Then she whirled around to level her rage at the Winchesters. "But I'll see you two again."

"Count on it," Dean wheezed from the ground.

And then it was just the three of them.

Sam's eyes rolled back, and he slumped down on Dean, who scrambled up to catch him.

Rick looked at his rifle, then at the brothers. Sam was unconscious and clearly not doing well. Dean hovered over him, checking his vitals with frantic competence, pulling up an eyelid, speaking so low that Rick couldn't hear, all while holding Sam up against his shoulder with one arm. The two were obviously close, concerned about each other to the point of self-sacrifice, feelings running deep. Try as he might, as he wanted to, Rick couldn't see either of them callously leaving Ellie or Joanna to die.

"You have a phone, a boat, something?"

He almost didn't hear Dean's urgent question. "What? Oh, uh. Yeah. Satellite phone." He dug it out of his pocket. "What's wrong with him?"

"Long story." Dean's eyebrow rose. "That thing work here?"

"Yeah."

"I need to get us one of those," Dean muttered. He nodded his chin at Rick's rifle. "You still planning on usin' that?"

Rick's eyes moved to the gun he'd been hunting with most of his life, and for the first time, he was repulsed by it. He dropped it to the ground, shook his head. "No."

"Awesome." Dean tucked Sam closer when his brother released a quiet moan. When he looked up again, the bravado was gone, only stark fear visible now. "You wanna call us some help then?"

Rick did.

00000

It turned out they were on some island in the Caribbean, small enough to be uninhabited and far enough from anything else that they wouldn't have been able to swim off, even if that demon bitch and Sam's injury would have allowed them to. But it was close enough that a chopper could make the trip to pick them up. Dean didn't really care as long as help got there soon. He even managed to shut out the fact that he was _flying_ back to civilization.

Or maybe that was just part of the panic he felt as he watched Sam alternate between bouts of frightening stillness and feverish agitation.

He told the medics and then the doctors some version of the truth: Sam had been stung, they'd seen the mother of all scorpions scurrying away, then Sam got sick. No one could understand how a scorpion could leave a sting that big, but they took a lot of blood and started treating symptoms. And, little by little, as Dean kept watch and chewed his lip from the corner of the cubicle, Sam started to improve. By the time the doctors decided that no antivenin would be needed, the hectic flush had faded from Sam's cheeks, his chest rising and falling more rhythmically, face settling into something that resembled sleep more than pained unconsciousness. Dean could almost believe his brother would be all right.

Sam was still hooked up to a heart monitor and an IV when they moved him to a small private room, but that was okay. At least Dean could hear his heart beating, strong and regular. He washed the dried sweat from Sam's face and arms, and tucked his too-long hair back behind his ears the way he liked to wear it now. The days of the messy fringe across his forehead were long gone: Sam was a man, big enough to bench-press Dean, scarred by countless battles, having proved himself on Earth and in Hell.

But he was still Dean's little brother, and always would be.

He was just finishing up a call to Bobby—a group of hunters had taken down Gamera—when there was a knock on the doorframe. Dean looked up, eyes narrowing at the sight of Rick Dempsey standing hesitantly in the doorway.

"Can I come in?"

"Am I gonna need my gun?" Dean growled back.

Rick raised both hands in surrender. "Not unless you want some payback."

It wasn't a bad idea, but there'd been enough pain and loss for the three of them. Dean gave a mute nod of permission and stepped back from the bed to lean against the wall, arms crossed. From there he could keep an eye on both Sam and Dempsey.

The older man had sense enough at least to keep his distance, hovering just inside the door. Dean watched him take in the medical hardware, and the sleeping patient. Rick finally ticked his head toward Sam. "He gonna be okay?"

"Yes." None of the doubts Dean felt showed in his answer.

Dempsey nodded. "What happened to him, anyway? It wasn't…?"

"Your demonic genie grabbed us in the middle of a hunt. Sam had just gotten nailed."

"By…?" Rick prompted.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Would you believe me?"

Dempsey ran a hand through his hair. "After today, probably." His smile was wry. "And Ellie and Bill knew about all this stuff?"

Dean shrugged. "I never met Bill, but he hunted with my dad. And Ellen and Jo were kick-ass hunters." He was surprised at the sweetness he felt along with the bitter of memory: Jo punching him the first time they met, their flirtation even when both of them knew it wouldn't be more, Ellen's easy slide from maternal to someone he had a healthy fear of. It made his mouth curl up, just a little.

"Yeah, I bet." Dempsey was also smiling sadly, and Dean saw the resemblance to Ellen now. The man cleared his throat. "You mind telling me more about how they… That last day?"

Dean eyed him. Honestly, he would rather talk about his time in Hell than about that day in Carthage. But if it were Sam—and it _had_ once been Sam—he'd want to know. Brothers deserved as much.

He cast a glance over Sam and the machines, noting the kid's temp was almost back to normal. Dean moved forward to lift the limp arms to tuck them under the blanket and pull it up to just under Sam's collarbone. Then he grabbed the folding chair nearby and swung it around to straddle it, near enough to Sam's bed that his brother was in arm's reach, making clear the side he chose.

Dempsey mirrored him, opening the one other chair propped by the door and sitting against the opposite wall. They faced each other over the hospital bed.

Dean took a breath. "The devil went down to Missouri…"

00000

He was cold.

Numb.

Heavy.

Not alone.

Sam's mind did the weary, familiar trek back to wakefulness, automatically self-diagnosing as he went.

Drugged. Tired. Head light and cloudy. Dizzy. Cold.

And Dean was there, talking. Someone else, too. But Dean didn't sound worried or mad, so it was okay. Sam was okay.

His toes were there, but he couldn't feel his fingers. His chest ached. His throat was dry. He was cold.

_"Sammy."_ The murmur bypassed his ears and went straight to his heart.

Dean found his fingers for him, gave them a rub. A little spot of warmth. Sam thought maybe he smiled.

"You cold?"

"Mm," he agreed. And sighed when, a minute later, something heavy and warm draped over him.

"Better?" Dean sounded amused now. Not hurting. Not broken. No reason to worry.

"'sty," Sam whispered, coughed when the word caught on the roughness of his throat.

"Hold on." Dean's hand dug under his head, lifted it. A glass was at his mouth. Water, tepid and _good._

Fingers pressed against the inside of his wrist, splayed across his chest, gently probed his side. There was a twinge there—scorpion? No, chimera. Not the burn from before, though. Felt pretty good actually. Just…really, really tired. He relaxed under the warm hand on his forehead.

"He okay?"

Another voice. Not Bobby or…did they have anyone else? Sam's nose twitched. Rick. Ellen's brother. The one who'd wanted to kill them. Dean didn't seem worried, though, and Sam let that be enough for him.

"He's fine, just bein' lazy. Sammy?" A little louder now. Hand squeezing his upper arm: reassurance. "You wanna say hi?"  
"No," Sam grumbled.

A snort right above him. The hand was on his shoulder now: laying claim. He'd have rolled his eyes if Dean hadn't had plenty of cause to be protective. "S'okay, Rick was just leaving."

That was a relief even if he wasn't worried about the man's presence. It was just…easier when it was only the two of them. Nothing to hide or to try to figure out. They'd paid a steep price for it, but there was a new level of comfort and understanding between them that made everything else so much more bearable.

But Rick had lost his sibling.

"Deal broken?" Sam murmured, turning toward Dean but not even trying to open his crusted eyes.

"Yeah, looks like. Lawyer Sam strikes again." Hand on his chest: pride.

Dempsey's unfamiliar laugh. "Seriously, he's worried about me? I can't believe you guys."

"Sammy always was a Boy Scout." One finger lightly sweeping back and forth. Fondness.

Sam grimaced appropriately and dug his face into the pillow. The fatigue wasn't an act.

"Okay, well. Thanks again, both of you. And I'm sorry for…"

He tuned out the rest, leaving the civilities to Dean. Which was just weird, but hey, he'd been stabbed by a poisoned barb the size of his finger. He was entitled. And Dean had come a long way in the making-nice department. They'd both changed a lot, those last few years.

That was still his big brother hovering over him, though, and Sam let him do what he did best while Sam drifted back to sleep.

00000

Rick got out of the truck slowly, eyes on the empty lot across the street.

Carthage was a ghost town, not surprising after what Winchester had shared with him. The official story was a contained outbreak of a severe strain of the flu, and even though the town had since been declared "safe," few had chosen to live or move back there. Some rebuilding had begun, though, including clearing out the rubble of the hardware store that had exploded from a "gas main break."

Nothing marked his sister and niece's grave except for a square of dirt and some old pipes.

The markers for the family plot were already on order, and Dean had sent him a few things he had of Ellie and Joanna Beth's that Rick could bury in place of bodies. But this was their true grave. And only he and a handful of others would ever know that, or of the sacrifice that had taken place here.

Rick crossed the street slowly, hovering at the edge of the broken sidewalk a long minute. Then he stepped over the line. He laid the flowers there, Ellie's favorite cornflowers and pure white calla lilies for Jo. Eyes burning, Rick stepped back. Cleared his throat.

"Hey, girls. I've missed you…"

**The End**


End file.
